


I was just like you when I was younger

by hamiltonneedshugs



Series: Washington's On Your Side [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Daddy Issues, Father Figures, Gen, Hamilton Just Wants To Fight Everyone, Hugs, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9250559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltonneedshugs/pseuds/hamiltonneedshugs
Summary: Professor Washington is unexpectedly assigned as the academic supervisor of brilliant but troubled third-year student Alexander Hamilton, and finds it very difficult not to worry about him. Hurt/comfort university AU, feat. Alex "Manic, Overworked, Doesn't Sleep or Care Enough About His Mental Health" Hamilton, and George "Patient, Paternal and Concerned" Washington. Just fluff really.





	1. In Which Hamilton Gets A New Supervisor

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Hamilton fic (please be nice). Written (and inspired by) my friend Smol Enjolras, who first got me into this damn musical. Enjoy!

 

 

 

When George Washington first met Alexander Hamilton, the first impression he got was one of _speed_. Not the drug (that was another matter), but the way the young man seemed to be under the impression that he was on the clock at all times, barely stopping for breath as he argued, paced, and gesticulated. 

 

He had inherited Hamilton, for want of a better word, from another academic supervisor who had gone on research leave and privately insinuated that Washington would be wise to take him under his wing personally, despite the fact that department heads rarely tutored undergrads. The tutor had first raised the topic towards the end of Hamilton’s second year. The vague reasons given for the unusual step ranged from the complimentary - "he is exceptionally gifted, don't get me wrong" to the problematic - "he once threatened to punch Adams in the face so for God's sake don't put the two of them in a room together". Washington's curiosity was therefore significantly piqued as it was, and that was before he happened to cover a Comparative Political Participation seminar for a colleague in which Hamilton was present.

 

It was a third year module that was being audited by a couple of second years for extra credit or merely interest, and Hamilton, despite being a year younger than almost every student, utterly dominated it. He talked (or shouted) a mile a minute, dark eyes flashing and hands waving manically. Washington would have found the behaviour boorish if what he was saying hadn’t been so perceptive and analytical; he actually caught himself nodding along once or twice instead of objecting. Hamilton also debated fiercely (if "fought" was not a more appropriate word), with Jefferson, who was generally snide and witty enough to put off any opponents, railroaded Burr, who normally acted as the the laconic, unflappable peacemaker of the group, and took furious, handwritten notes every time Washington opened his mouth. Washington didn't know whether to be flattered or worried by that, but he was certainly interested. He agreed to supervise Hamilton during his third year at the next departmental meeting, which produced audible, if quickly smothered, sighs of relief from nearly every other staff member.

 

So come October when Washington checked his calendar for the upcoming week, he was pleased to see that Hamilton had booked himself in for a 9am supervision meeting on Tuesday. It was customary for tutors to meet their supervisees at the beginning of term, but Washington was not normally so enthusiastic about the prospect. He wasn’t that he didn’t like undergraduates - he taught them little due to necessity, not by choice. Indeed the hard-working ones were a pleasure to work with - passionate, vocal, and young enough to be reckless and painfully genuine in their beliefs. Unfortunately in one-on-one meetings they tended to seem a little overawed by him and became much more reticent, if not almost silent. Somehow, he did not think that Hamilton would suffer this problem. 

 

However, on Tuesday morning, 9am came and went with no sign of Hamilton. Washington, who had made sure to arrive at his office early, was disappointed, and not a little irritated. He double-checked the appointment time, busied himself checking through his emails (not that there were many so early in term), and started regretting not having picked up a cup of coffee from the cafe downstairs. By the time 9.25 came he was just about resigned to the fact that Hamilton was not coming. He stood up with a sigh and went to open his office door to head downstairs in search of caffeine.

 

But as he opened the door, someone on the other side of it jumped into the air and yelped “fuck!”

 

Washington flinched back a little himself, and then gave his visitor a critical look. Hamilton looked very scruffy, and very frazzled. His hair looked to have grown over the summer, from what Washington remembered, and it was now swept back out his face in a messy bun. He was clutching three scuffed folders and two large books, with a messenger bag hanging haphazardly off his right shoulder. It looked like a pen had burst over his hands, which were thoroughly blotched with dark ink. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and also rather startled.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Hamilton spluttered, stepping backwards quickly. He looked smaller and younger than Washington had remembered him from the seminar somehow, but then again, maybe the force of his personality had created a false impression in his mind. 

 

“Hmmmm. For the language, or for your tardiness? I was just leaving - I presumed you were not attending,” Washington said disapprovingly.

 

“Er, both, sir. I’m really sorry,” Hamilton gabbled. To his credit, he did look very contrite, but Washington suspected that it was at least partly an act. “My SU meeting overran.”

 

Washington raised his eyebrows theatrically and looked pointedly at his watch. “It’s barely half past nine. You’re telling me you’ve been at a meeting this early?” he said sceptically. 

 

“Yeah, we meet at 6am twice a week,” Hamilton said earnestly. “We find it’s the best time to fit in meetings without interfering with people’s other commitments.”

 

“Their commitments don’t include sleep then, I presume,” Washington said wryly, but Hamilton only gave him a confused look in return. Washington suddenly realised that they were stillfrozen half-in and half-out of his office, and coughed a little. “Anyway, do come in.”

 

“Thanks, sir,” Hamilton said, barreling in after Washington, his eyes darting around the cosy office. “Like I say, I really am sorry for being late, it was the first meeting back after summer and we’ve got the referendum to organise, and I lost track of time.”

 

“I understand,” Washington said, sympathetic despite himself. “Please take a seat.”

 

Hamilton flung himself into the spare chair, which was a saggy old green armchair that had used to live in Washington’s study at home until Martha had insisted on buying him a new one. He also managed to drop one of his books as he did so. Washington picked it up. “Ah, _Humans Rights: Politics and Practice_. Can I assume you’re taking the _War, Humanitarianism and Law_ module then?”

 

“Yes sir,” Hamilton said eagerly.

 

“How are you finding it?” Washington said mildly, lowering himself down into his own slightly more pragmatic office chair while peering critically at the book. The cover looked rather ink-stained, in a suspiciously similar way to Hamilton himself. “Though I suppose you haven’t really started the seminars yet.”

 

“Well, no, but I’ve done the preliminary reading,” Hamilton said, in such a nonchalant way that Washington actually believed him (as was rarely the case with students who insisted they had done any optional reading). “So I have quite a lot of ideas about it already but I’m looking forward to seeing what Dr. Franklin has got to bring to the subject.”

 

“Oh, well, excellent,” Washington said, a little taken aback. It was rare for students to consider the views of their tutors as merely an optional supplement to their own ideas, but he supposed if anyone had the confidence, it would be Hamilton. “I don’t know if you remember, but you were in a third-year module that I covered last year - I was very impressed with your opinions.”

 

Hamilton almost visibly puffed up with pride, flushing a little. “I do remember, sir, it was a great seminar. And well.” His mouth quirked into a grin. “Y’know, I don’t always say that.”

 

Washington smiled slightly. No, he expected Hamilton wasn’t generally one for meaningless platitudes, even for his professors. He handed back the library book. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it, and that you’re engaging so well with your modules already this year. And you’re part of the Student Union as well?”

 

“Yeah, I first started getting involved in my first year,” Hamilton said quickly. “But I’m Treasurer of Politics Soc as well, and obviously in the Debating Society.”

 

“Oh. Are you, erm, planning to step back from any of your extra-curriculars?” Washington asked cautiously. “Third year can be very academically demanding, as I’m sure you know.”

 

Hamilton frowned. “Well, I’m planning to spend a bit less time working with the student radio this year, and I’m only writing for the newspaper, not editing at all, so I’ve already cut back quite a lot.”

 

“Ah,” Washington said diplomatically, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Well, if you’re sure you can handle all that.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure, sir,” Hamilton said decisively, shuffling his folders and sitting up a little straighter. “My degree work will not slip, I guarantee you. I’m very keen to get a double first if at all possible.”

 

Washington blinked. “Well judging from your marks that is… ambitious but not necessarily unrealistic. But really I meant whether it would be healthy for you to attempt to do so much.”

 

The slight frown on Hamilton’s face darkened. “How do you mean?”

 

“Well, I hate to point it out, but you look a little…” Washington waved his hand vaguely, trying to pick his words carefully. “Tired. It’s only the beginning of term, son, you’ve got to be careful not to burn yourself out.”

 

Hamilton narrowed his eyes at him quizzically. “Sir, seriously, I’ve got this.” He gave a dramatic flourish of his hand and for a moment Washington was reminded of his slightly frightening intensity while arguing with Jefferson. “Yeah, I might miss out on some sleep every now and again. But it all gets done! I do more reading than half my classmates put together! I…”

 

“Alexander, stop,” Washington said, raising his hand, and to his great surprise, Hamilton did. “Believe me when I say I am not questioning the fact that you are intelligent and dedicated and very capable,” he said seriously. “But as your supervisor I need to make sure that your personal life, or indeed your mental health, is not suffering due to your university commitments.” 

 

Hamilton gave a slightly manic laugh, and then looked slightly more sober when Washington fixed with him a disapproving stare.

 

“At least think about it, please, Alexander. There is no shame in asking for help, or in… reorganising your time if necessary.”

 

“Of course not, sir,” Hamilton said promptly, nodding earnestly in a way that clearly suggested that he had no intention of taking this advice to heart.

 

Washington sighed, slightly despairingly, looking at Hamilton’s young but already gaunt face. “All right then.” He shrugged. “I’ve said my piece. But you’ll make sure to come and talk to me if you need to, OK?”

 

“Yes sir,” Hamilton said, with the tone of someone eager to change the subject. “So, about my dissertation, I wondered if I could discuss…”

 

When Hamilton finally left, more than an hour later, Washington felt exhausted. The young man had talked practically non-stop, given Washington two first drafts (both nearly 5,000 words over the word count) for slightly different possible dissertation questions, a hefty booklet summarising his research so far, and an essay he had written _for fun_ based on the Comparative Political Participation module. Washington sighed and rubbed his eyes. He _really_ needed that cup of coffee now. He also made a note in his diary to check up on Hamilton in a month’s time. 


	2. In Which Hamilton Punches A Dude, To Washington's Disappointment

 

 

 

It proved both easier and more difficult to keep track of Hamilton than Washington had initially anticipated.

 

On the one hand, Hamilton emailed him constantly. Asking for opinions on his dissertation, on his procedural essays, on the topics he was presenting to his seminar groups, even on what political issue he should base his latest student newspaper article on. Amazingly the constant flow of communication didn’t annoy Washington nearly as much as he might have expected - Hamilton was very bright and (mostly) polite and clearly interested in Washington’s opinion, and they got along well. Discussing Hamilton’s theories and ideas was much more like talking to a postgraduate or even a PhD student than an undergrad. 

 

On the other hand, collaring Hamilton for a personal meeting was almost impossible. And when Washington did manage to book him in, he normally turned up late, with or without an apology, steadfastly refused to discuss cutting down his workload even as he seemed to become paler and more twitchy with every meeting, and remained singularly obsessed with his research. To say Washington was concerned was an understatement, but since he didn’t have any concrete proof that Hamilton was not in fact coping, there was little he could really do about it. Moreover, he feared losing Hamilton’s trust if he stepped out of line.

 

And he did tentatively believe that he had gained Hamilton’s trust somewhat, though certainly that was a relative term. It became common knowledge that Hamilton had started to refuse to let Professor Adams read his essays, for example, since he feared they would be “contaminated”. (That was a particular dispute that Washington had taken great care not to wade into). However, he seemed to have no such reservations about Washington reading them. In fact, he welcomed any criticism or feedback that Washington gave him, even if he sometimes respectfully, or not so respectfully, disagreed. 

 

And in their last meeting, when Hamilton had stifled a yawn, Washington had said, as casually as he could manage, “Tired, son?”

 

“A little,” Hamilton had admitted, which was the closest Washington had ever got to any further discussion about his work-life balance. Then again, he supposed that Hamilton’s life _was_ his work, though whether that was any better remained to be seen. 

 

In any case, it had only been a week or so since that meeting, and Washington was just growing quietly optimistic about Hamilton’s chances of surviving the year or even of confiding in him, when he walked right into the Incident.

 

He had just popped out of the department building for a quick walk around campus in the bright winter sunshine one afternoon when he heard raised voices. Hardly exceptional for a university campus, but there was a certain edge to the shouting that made him pause for a moment, and then quicken his stride.

 

Then he heard a very familiar voice yell, “YOU _MOTHERFUCKER_!” and began jogging as fast as he could to the scene.

 

When he rounded the corner, an all-too-familiar tableau greeted him. Two young men grappling awkwardly with one another, flinging punches. Groups of friends behind each one, whether egging them on or pulling them back was not immediately clear. What was clear was that one of the young men was Alexander Hamilton, and his face was bloody. Washington ran towards the group, adrenaline surging.

 

“Leave it, Alex!” one of the boys was shouting.

 

“Shit, Washington, back the fuck up,” someone else said, but Hamilton and his opponent didn’t have time to disengage before Washington grabbed Hamilton roughly by the back of his shirt and yanked him backwards. Hamilton’s shoes scraped roughly on the gravel as he stumbled, trying to keep his balance.

 

“Hamilton! What in hell’s name are you doing?!” Washington barked.

 

Hamilton reeled, his dark hair half-plastered over his face, his eyes wild. His nose, mouth and hands were bloody. “Sir, I…”

 

His rival, who at closer quarters Washington vaguely recognised as Charles Lee, a fellow third-year, snickered, though he too was mopping at a swollen nose. “Oh, _sir_!” he parroted mockingly.

 

“Fuck off!” Hamilton snarled, and lunged forward. Washington barely managed to restrain him. Lee dodged back, laughing, though two of his supporters - Aaron Burr and another kid Washington didn’t recognise, pulled him away.

 

“Do I need to call campus security,” Washington said flatly, his voice deadly, though his heart was hammering with the tension.

 

“No sir,” Burr said immediately. “We’re leaving.” He grabbed Lee by the arm and said in an undertone, “For fuck’s sake, Lee, leave it.”

 

Luckily Lee seemed to come to his senses, quickly fleeing the scene with the rest of his group. Washington was left still clutching at Hamilton’s collar, now surrounded by his companions. He recognised a couple of them - a small freckled Politics student called Laurens and a tall French exchange student whose name he couldn’t remember. But he was more occupied with Hamilton.

 

“Are you all right?” he said roughly, belatedly releasing Hamilton’s shirt. 

 

“Yes sir,” Hamilton said quietly, dabbing at his nose with his sleeve and peering at the blood.

 

“Come on, Alex,” Laurens said.

 

Washington glanced up at him, hovering over Hamilton’s shoulder, and was gratified to see that he looked as pale and worried as Washington felt.

 

“I _told_ you - you should have let me take him instead,” Laurens continued. Washington’s approval evaporated.

 

“Right, Alexander, my office, _now_ ,” he said firmly.

 

“But sir…”

 

“ _Immediately_.”

 

Hamilton exchanged glances with his friends and then trooped after Washington disconsolately. God, he hoped no one else from the department bumped into them on the way. He exhaled slowly as they climbed the stairs, trying to control his anger. He wasn’t sure whether it was more directed at Lee, Hamilton, or himself at this stage. He shouldn’t have got involved. But he couldn’t have stood by. What the hell had Hamilton been thinking?

 

When they reached his office, Washington opened the door for Hamilton and pointed to the armchair. “Sit down. Stay here.”

 

Hamilton did so, surprisingly meek suddenly. He seemed a little dazed.

 

Washington walked briskly back down the corridor to the toilets and quickly grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, dampening a couple at the sink. He met the eyes of his reflection in the mirror briefly. He was perspiring, and looked angry. His jacket was rumpled. He straightened it quickly, closed his eyes for a moment to control himself, and then went back to Hamilton.

 

Hamilton had removed his own jacket and was now prodding at his right eye, which already looked red and would surely swell nicely black and blue before long. Washington sighed again at the sight of him and sat down in his own office chair, wheeling himself towards Hamilton so he could sit directly opposite him.

 

“Let me see,” he said gruffly.

 

Hamilton lowered his hand reluctantly, and Washington observed his face critically. There didn’t seem to be any serious damage. His nose was oozing blood freely but was not too swollen, or misshapen at all, and the initially frightening bloody mouth seemed to be due to a badly split lip rather than any misplaced teeth. Hamilton stayed suspiciously quiet for the examination, even letting Washington touch his jaw gently to turn his head, though he winced slightly.

 

“All right,” Washington said, his voice a little less harsh now he was less worried. “You’ll live, no need for the hospital. Clean yourself up.”

 

He passed Hamilton the paper towels.

 

“Thanks,” Hamilton muttered, applying one to his nose immediately and using another to act as a compress on his eye. 

 

His other eye, still bright and alert, flicked suspiciously to Washington. “Why am I here?” he said quietly. “Are you going to shout at me?” His voice was almost mocking, and Washington swallowed back his anger.

 

“I should do,” he said curtly.

 

“Won’t make a difference, just warning you,” Hamilton said sullenly. 

 

Washington breathed out slowly through his teeth. “Listen, son…”

 

“Don’t call me son,” Hamilton snapped uncharacteristically (he usually tolerated the “son” thing remarkably well), but Washington ignored him.

 

“Do you seriously not have enough on your plate without picking fights?” Washington’s voice was sharp, despite his efforts to control his temper. “You know how smart you are, why would you risk throwing it away over something so stupid?”

 

Hamilton scoffed. “What, you think I’m going to _die_ in a fistfight?”

 

Washington wondered if Hamilton was deliberately provoking him at this stage. “Firstly,” he said coldly. “People have and do die in fistfights, don’t play stupid. Secondly, you know that I meant that this kind of thing could ruin your future at this university. Lee could press assault charges if he wanted.”

 

Hamilton snorted. “He wouldn’t.”

 

“Really? Who threw the first punch?” Washington asked, his voice clipped.

 

Hamilton shrugged insolently, now leaning back in the chair. He was going to get blood on it if he wasn’t careful.

 

“Are you really going to play it this way?” Washington continued. “You know I could call campus security myself, right now.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” Hamilton said, though he sounded a little less confident. 

 

“No,” Washington admitted. “But next time you might not be so lucky! Anyone could have seen you. This kind of thing can go on your permanent record, Alexander!”

 

Hamilton said nothing, now staring moodily into the distance. Washington shook his head hopelessly. “Jesus, Hamilton. I tell you to take care of yourself, and this is what you do.”

 

Something flickered in Hamilton’s face, but he stayed silent, possibly for the first time in his life.

 

“What happened?” Washington asked. “Did he provoke you?”

 

Silence. A muscle shifted in Hamilton’s jaw, however.

 

“Did he say something against you personally?” Washington probed.

 

“Not exactly,” Hamilton said quietly, teeth gritted. The hand holding the paper towel to his nose was gripping so tightly that it was going white.

 

“OK. What was it about, then, son?”

 

“I’m not your son,” Hamilton said coldly. He huffed through his nose, removed the paper towel, observed the blood on it, and wiped at his nostrils again before crumpling it in his fist. “It…”

 

He hesitated. Washington let the silence hang. He knew how to play this game too. The muscle in Hamilton’s jaw jumped again. 

 

“It was about you,” Hamilton said, all in a rush, refusing to meet Washington’s eyes.

 

Washington frowned and inclined his head in interest, rather taken aback. “About me?”  


“Yes.”

 

“What about me?” Washington said, fully aware that this was not the central issue but unable to prevent his curiosity getting the better of him.

 

Hamilton gave a hollow laugh and glanced down at the floor. “You don’t want to know.” His voice was taut and bitter. 

 

“Tell me,” Washington said, unsure of whether to go for stern or gentle, and landing somewhere confusing in the middle. Hamilton’s gaze left the floor and travelled up to meet his eyes.

 

“He was just… talking shit about your modules. And…”

 

“My _modules_?!” Washington said incredulously. “You punched a fellow student for criticising my _modules_?!” He didn’t know whether to be furious or flattered. No, definitely the former. 

 

“It wasn’t just that,” Hamilton said firmly.

 

“Oh, did he have the gall to lay into my books as well?” Washington said sardonically.

 

“No,” Hamilton insisted, and his voice was so serious that Washington shut up. Hamilton hesitated again, worrying at his split lip with his teeth. “He was saying stuff about… you and me. Saying that it was… weird that we had so many meetings together.” He began feverishly shredding the damp, bloody paper towel. “First he said that maybe you were my… fucking… dad… seeing as I don’t have one of those.” Bits of the paper towel were now littering Washington’s carpet. “And then he said maybe you were just a perv instead.” He ripped the remains of the tissue viciously. 

 

“Oh,” Washington said heavily. “I see.”

 

“Not sure you’ve helped the rumours coming to my rescue like that,” Hamilton said resentfully.

 

“I’m… sorry if I made things more difficult for you,” Washington said carefully. He made an effort to soften his tone. “But Alexander, I do not need you to fight my battles for me, and certainly not with your fists.”

 

Something dark came over Hamilton’s face. His fist clenched. “If people say _things_ like that, then someone has to tell them to _shut the fuck up_ ,” he spat.

 

“I’ve had worse said about me,” Washington said honestly.

 

“But…” Now Hamilton raised his hands in frustration, struggling to get his point across. The anger in his voice was palpable, his voice getting louder. “You don’t understand…”

 

“You’re right, I _don’t_ ,” Washington said, his own voice rising as well.. “I don’t understand why you would risk your _future_ over something this foolish. You must know how ridiculous this is, son.”

 

“ _Call me son one more time,_ ” Hamilton snarled, and thumped his hand on the arm of the chair, hard. His teeth were clenched so forcefully that his face was shaking with it. 

 

Washington gave him a long look. He looked awful. His hair was greasy and falling out of its bun. His face was streaked with blood, sweat, and quite possibly a tear that was treacherously creeping down his left cheek. One eye was puffy, the other screwed up in rage, his skin blotchy. He looked like a man at the end of his tether.

 

“OK,” Washington said slowly. “I’m sorry. Now. You’re one of the most persuasive and effective speakers I’ve ever met. So, explain to me. Help me understand.”

 

Hamilton shot him a look that was half-fury, half-desperation. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

 

“To be in your shoes? No, I don’t,” Washington said sincerely. “I can guess, but I don’t know. Tell me.”

 

“I…” Hamilton shook his head, huffed out another breath. His posture relaxed a little out of the angry rigidity. “I’m just… I try so hard to…”

 

He heaved another sigh. Washington waited. For a long time. He knew better than to interrupt what he knew were Hamilton’s wildly spinning thoughts. He stared down at his hands and began to count the wrinkles on his knuckles.

 

“My mum and dad are dead,” Hamilton spat eventually. Washington tried not to react. “My dad walked out on us first, though. I haven’t had a parent in nearly ten years, and if I talk to _one fucking person_ , someone like Lee…” He shook his head. “Someone like Lee has got to _fucking ruin it_. It makes me so angry I can’t even… think.” His jaw twitched. “I _hate_ not thinking. I’m thinking _all the fucking time, I can’t turn it off_ , and then suddenly…” He waved a hand irritably, but some of the tension seemed suddenly to have drained out of him. He seemed smaller suddenly, more tired. 

 

“OK,” Washington said softly. “I know. It happens sometimes. But you know you have to walk away before you get to that stage. You’re better than that.”

 

“I know,” Hamilton muttered, but there was less anger in it now. He gave another shuddering sigh, and picked at a growing hole in the knee of his jeans. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost inaudibly.

 

“What for?” Washington joked. “Fighting, shouting at me, bleeding on my chair?”

 

Hamilton managed to give a small smile. “All of the above, I guess.”

 

“OK. Good.”

 

They sat in silence for another moment.

 

“Don’t do this again, please, Alexander,” Washington said, as imploringly as he could. “If they make another comment, walk away. And come to shout at me if it makes you feel better.”

 

“Not really,” Hamilton said, now working the hole in his jeans larger and larger. “Made me feel guilty.”

 

“Well, maybe not that then. But you know what I mean. My office door is always open. And I don’t say that often.”

 

Hamilton nodded, eyes still on his knees. 

 

“And get some sleep as well, while you’re at it,” Washington added cautiously.

 

Hamilton snorted and rolled his eyes. “Now you do sound like you’re trying to parent me.”

 

“Well,” Washington amended quickly, and then paused. “I can drop the ‘son’ thing if it makes you uncomfortable, you know. I’m sorry, it’s just a habit.”

 

“No, you don’t… You don’t have to,” Hamilton said quietly. “It’s OK. When I’m not pissed off.”

 

“OK. Understood. Do you want a cup of tea or anything?”

 

“Not really. Can I go back to my housemates? They’ll be worrying.”

 

“Ah, Laurens and the rest?” Washington said shrewdly. Hamilton nodded. “All right then. Keep something on your face if you can, though. Bag of peas. Whatever you students eat.”

 

“Will do, sir,” Hamilton said, standing up and shrugging his jacket back on with a wince. 

 

A thought crossed Washington’s mind, but he hesitated. “Do you mind if I…”

 

He reached out his right hand cautiously, hovering it meaningfully above Hamilton’s shoulder. Hamilton gave him a long look, and then nodded his assent. Washington clasped his hand down confidently. Hamilton was very tense, as if readying himself for a blow. “I’m serious, you know. Take care of yourself.”

 

“OK,” Hamilton said quietly, gave Washington a wary nod, and was gone. 


	3. In Which Hamilton Has Friends Beside Him

 

 

 

Hamilton unlocked the door as best he could, fumbling a little, and then staggered into his house, nearly tripping over a pair of Lafayette’s boots in the porch.

 

“I’m back!” he called, a little unnecessarily, since Laurens had already poked his head anxiously round the door.

 

“Alex! Shit, are you OK? Sorry, you didn’t text and we didn’t know how long Washington would be keeping you, so we came back.”

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Hamilton said quickly, heading for the kitchen and opening their tiny freezer. “Do we have any peas?”

 

“No?” Laurens said confusedly. “Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Washington said to put peas on my eye.”

 

“Oh, OK.” Laurens paused to holler up the stairs. “HERC! LAF! ALEX IS BACK!”

 

There was a familiar rumbling as the two of them began pounding down the flight of stairs. Hamilton located one of Mulligan’s failed attempts at a vodka ice lolly and went across to the cutlery drawer to find a sandwich bag to put it in. The roll was nearly empty, but it was for a good cause.

 

“Herc, is it OK if I use this vodka lolly as an ice pack?” Hamilton asked belatedly, jamming it on to his eye and wincing. 

 

“Yeah, sure man, they were disgusting anyway, I just forgot to throw them out,” Herc said, leaping into the kitchen and hoisting himself up to sit on one of the worktops. Hamilton had been living with him since first year, and he had always insisted that sitting on the worktops was a brilliant idea, and not, as Hamilton had suggested, both gross and inconvenient for anyone trying to use the kitchen for its intended purpose. “Are you all right? What did Washington say?”

 

“Give him a chance, he only just got in,” Laurens protested, grabbing one of the kitchen chairs that still had all its legs and prodding Hamilton firmly into it, because he was Hamilton’s oldest and closest friend and had his priorities in order. “But seriously, what did he say?” Oh, perhaps not.

 

“No, first things first,” Lafayette said, leaning over to peer critically at Hamilton (he was too vain to wear the glasses they all insisted he needed). “Tell me you have not damaged your pretty face.” Lafayette had only been living with them since autumn term, but they had all been talking online with him for far longer than that, first meeting at a demonstration in Paris protesting against anti-gay-marriage marches long before he had even decided to take his year abroad in the UK. 

 

“Well,” Hamilton said doubtfully, removing the vodka lolly briefly to facilitate the inspection. “I have a bit, but Washington said he didn’t think it was too bad.”

 

“I fucking told you - you should have let me take Lee!” Mulligan said regretfully. “You are, like, one of the worst fighters I have ever seen.”

 

“That is _not_ fair,” Hamilton protested. “Have you seen Lee?”

 

“Or I could have done it,” Laurens pointed out, to widespread protest from the other three. “Fine, whatever. Was Washington really mad, Alex? Is he going to report it?”

 

“Do we need to let down his tires to send a message?” Mulligan suggested darkly.

 

“Do not do this to Professor Washington,” Lafayette said severely, who was a great supporter of his and had almost cried upon hearing that Hamilton was going to have him as a personal tutor.

 

“OK, OK, everyone calm down, let me just tell you what happened,” Hamilton said, raising his voice a little. 

 

Three pairs of eyes stared at him expectantly. 

 

“So, he dragged me up to his office,” Hamilton began. “Then he told me to sit down, went to get some paper towels for my nose… Then he had a look at my face, said it didn’t look too bad, and then… Well, gave me a bit of a lecture on not fighting. That was it, really.”

 

“Not fighting?” Mulligan said incredulously. 

 

“Professor Washington is an honourable man, but he is bound by the rules of his position, he must say such a thing,” Lafayette said sadly.

 

“Yeah well, he was talking about how it could go on my permanent record at uni, how he could have called security, y’know.” Hamilton rubbed his bruised knuckles absent-mindedly against his thigh. 

 

“Yeah, but if he’d known what Lee had been saying, then…” Mulligan put in.

 

“Well, I… told him, actually,” Hamilton said quietly. There was a brief, shocked silence. 

 

“Erm, you did what?!” Laurens said.

 

“Well, he asked, and I…” Hamilton shrugged. It sounded foolish saying it now, but he’d felt the need to confess to Washington, to justify why he’d been acting so stupidly. Because fighting did seem pretty stupid now, sitting here with his face stinging like a motherfucker and his head aching. 

 

“How did he take it?” Laurens asked, pulling a face.

 

“What, the fact that people are saying that Washington is a) Alex’s dad, and b) probably fucking him?” Mulligan said. “And let’s just hope people think those options are mutually exclusive…”

 

He was shouted down with several loud yelps of “seriously Herc?” and “fucking _eugh_ , stop”.

 

“Well, I mean… He took it pretty well, to be honest,” Hamilton confessed. “But I did… I did yell at him for calling me ‘son’.”

 

“You shouted at Professor Washington?” Lafayette said in horror, at the same time as Laurens screeched, “He calls you _son_?”

 

“Well, not on purpose,” Hamilton tried to explain, touching his now very cold eye experimentally. 

 

“The shouting or the calling you ‘son’?” Mulligan asked patiently.

 

“Well, both. I don’t know, I think it just slips out when he’s talking to me sometimes.” Hamilton shrugged. “And I don't mind it normally, it was just winding me up because I was pissed off and well, pretty sensitive about the… dad thing.”

 

“Ah,” Mulligan said diplomatically. There was another short silence.

 

“So yeah, he didn’t really make a big deal out of the shouting, he just kept talking to me the same, and said I should… I dunno, not get into fights? Come talk to him instead… Get more sleep.”

 

“I’ve been saying that to you for _literally years_!” Laurens said indignantly. 

 

“I know, I know. But I mean… He kind of does have a point. And he was really nice about it.” Hamilton shrugged again, rubbed his jaw. 

 

“Oh my God, you actually want him to be your dad,” Laurens said in a hushed tone.

 

“Better than the alternative,” Mulligan pointed out.

 

“For the love of God, please shut up,” Lafayette moaned at him. 

 

Hamilton managed a laugh. “I think he’s a good guy, you know? It’s nice to have someone like that… caring.” He ducked his head and tried not to think about it too hard, because the thought was making his eyes prickle.

 

“I have also told you this so many times,” Lafayette said. “Professor Washington is an admirable and gracious man.”

 

“And you have to admit that the way he replies to your emails so quickly is just cute,” Laurens said.

 

“And he gave me a weird shoulder pat before I went,” Hamilton recalled, replicating the motion on himself. Lafayette mimed swooning, and even Mulligan looked impressed.

 

“Anyway,” Hamilton continued. “The good news is, he’s not going to report me. The bad news is that I get the idea he’s gonna be watching me like a hawk now.”

 

“Good!” Laurens said, and Hamilton grimaced. “Sorry, but the more people we have trying to stop you punching people, the better.”

 

“You were only trying to stop me punching Lee because you wanted to do the punching.”

 

“Well, yeah, true, but he’s right, it is probably a bad idea,” Laurens conceded.

 

“What the hell has _happened_ to you guys?” Mulligan murmured in despair. 

 

“Well, only because Lee is slimy and weaselly enough to actually try and report you. Next time punch someone like Burr. His policy is to keep his mouth shut at all times so he won’t be able to say anything about it,” Laurens suggested.

 

“Nah, Burr’s OK most of the time, apart from when he’s being a dick,” Hamilton said dolefully. He felt the cold wet drip of vodka on his leg and removed the sandwich bag from his eye. No wonder it was stinging now. “Ugh, I think this is melting.”

 

“You fool, I still have a real ice pack in that first aid bag we had to have for the charity run,” Lafayette chided him. “Stay here.”

 

“And I’m making you a cup of tea,” Laurens said, leaping towards the kettle. 

 

“Erm, d’you want a sandwich?” Mulligan offered.

 

Hamilton laughed. “Yeah, go on, then, I skipped lunch.”

 

“Make me one also, s’il te plait!” Lafayette called as he ran up the stairs, and Laurens added in a meaningful nod, to Mulligan’s great complaint. 

 

Hamilton smiled, and went to dump his soggy vodka bag in the overflowing bin. Life might be shit right now, and he might have two essays due in for next week, and the fucking SU referendum coming up, but at least he had friends beside him. And maybe he could even consider counting Professor Washington as one of them. 


	4. In Which Hamilton Needs A Nap

 

 

 

Two weeks later, Washington logged on to his computer first thing in the morning to find an interesting email from Hamilton. It was unusual for three reasons. 

 

Firstly, Hamilton had spelt his name as “Washigotn”.

 

Secondly, it had been sent at 4.03am.

 

Thirdly, though Washington _believed_ it was discussing a possible essay extension and whether Hamilton could come to his office to talk about it, it was so poorly written and rambling that he had to re-read it two or three times before he got the gist. He sighed worriedly. God help him, what had Hamilton got himself into now? He quickly emailed back, saying “ _In my office all morning, please pop in whenever_ ”, and then sat stupidly in his chair trying to compose his thoughts. Dealing with Hamilton left him feeling rather out of his depth. It was like trying to put out a raging house-fire with a single bucket.

 

It was only half an hour later when Washington heard the now-familiar rapping on his office door. “Come in!” he called, spinning around on his chair and mentally steeling himself for what he was about to see.

 

Hamilton half-fell into the room, and he looked just about as terrible as Washington had predicted. His hair was lank and greasy. The normal shadows under his eyes were even deeper and darker than usual, and he was wearing a pair of grimy glasses perched crookedly in front of his bloodshot eyes. His scruffy stubble was creeping into “patchy beard” territory, which contrasted sharply with his very pale face. His already stained hoody looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. The hole in his jeans was now gaping so widely that his foot was catching on the trailing cuff, and his shoes were filthy and unlaced. 

 

“Sit down,” Washington said immediately, trying to keep the instinctive sharpness out of his voice.

 

Hamilton didn’t need telling twice, collapsing immediately into his armchair, and dumping two enormous books down in front of him with a thud. “Sir, thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice. It’s about this essay I’m trying to write for _Global Justice_. It’s only a procedural, but I’m really struggling to develop my central argument. It doesn’t seem to be gelling together correctly.” While his hands always fluttered jerkily when he was talking, today they were practically vibrating as he waved them in frustration. “I'm sure I can still get it done, sir, but the deadline is in…” He glanced at his wrist rapidly, realised there was no watch there, and then began squinting up at the clock above Washington’s desk. “Half an hour, which I know is doable, but I feel a bit behind with the planning, and what with the SU referendum in two days I’ve been so busy with the meetings, I…”

 

“Stop, Alexander,” Washington said quickly, slightly appalled and wanting to call a halt before the flood of words increased in intensity any further. “Take a breath. Are you all right? You look awful.”

 

Hamilton usually looked offended and surprised when questioned about his appearance, but today he looked slightly resigned. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t have time. Do you think I’d be able to get an extension until the afternoon? It’s not like I haven’t done the reading! I…”

 

“Of course you can get an extension,” Washington interrupted, sensing that that was the only way he was likely to get a word in. “It’s a procedural. It won’t count towards your final marks anyway. I can talk to Greene and I’m sure he’d be happy for you to hand it in next week, he never marks them immediately anyway.”

 

Hamilton looked horrified, but leapt out of his chair. “A week won’t be necessary, sir! I mean, thank you, but if I get to the library now I’m sure I can turn it in before lunch.”

 

“A week _will_ be necessary,” Washington said firmly, mentally vowing to go and speak to Greene personally as soon as he’d finished with Hamilton. “Besides, that will give you time to sit back down and talk to me.”

 

Hamilton froze, his hand already on the door. “Sir, it’s fine, I…”

 

“I’m going to have to insist,” Washington said, standing up and pushing the door closed again. “That’s my deal. I will get you an extension, if you sit down.”

 

Hamilton’s dark eyes darted to his, flickering rapidly back and forth across his face in confusion. For a moment Washington realised that he’d put himself very close to Hamilton, within easy punching distance. But then Hamilton’s eyes dropped, and he mumbled, “OK, fine,” and slumped back into his chair.

 

“Thank you,” Washington said sincerely, and sat back down himself. He leaned forward, hands clasped in what he hoped was a non-threatening position. “Now. When was the last time you slept?”

 

Hamilton’s right knee began a frantic jumping, tapping his foot compulsively on the floor. “Sir, this isn’t relevant, I’m sorry about the essay, it won’t happen again…”

 

“I’m not worried about the essay, son, I’m worried about you.”

 

Hamilton gave him another long look, pushing his glasses more securely on to his nose (which Washington was pleased to see looked none the worse after the fight). He looked suspicious and guarded. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, exhaling slowly through his nose. Washington waited.

 

“Night before last,” Hamilton eventually grunted.

 

“OK,” Washington said, trying not to react. “Was that a full night, or…?”

 

Hamilton gave him a look over the top of his glasses that quite clearly said “no”.

 

“All right then. How long did you get?”

 

Hamilton wriggled awkwardly. “It doesn’t matter, I’ve been busy…”

 

“Alexander.”

 

“OK, fine, like, a couple of hours. But it was more of an… accidental nap when I was writing, to be honest.”

 

Washington clenched his teeth. “OK. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

 

“What are you, my dad?” Hamilton snapped, and then shook his head. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s OK,” Washington said, fighting not to get diverted.

 

“What’re you counting as a full night?” Hamilton said, now tapping his hand rapidly on his non-bouncing leg. 

 

“More than five hours?” Washington said hopefully.

 

Hamilton shrugged off-handedly. “Don’t remember.”

 

“OK.” Washington exhaled slowly, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Alexander, we’ve talked about this before.”

 

“Yeah, and I told you, I’m a fucking adult, this is my life, you’ve not got any real authority over me, and it’s my fucking choice to do what I want,” Hamilton said venomously.

 

“All very true,” Washington said, nodding, refusing to be provoked. Hamilton seemed more comfortable getting into fights than he did with conversation, but that wasn’t the way Washington wanted this to go. “I’m not asking as someone who is going to punish you if you do something wrong, I’m asking as someone who is worried that you’re going to hurt yourself.”

 

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with me!”

 

“How many energy drinks have you had this morning?” Washington said sceptically.

 

Hamilton twitched guiltily. “A couple. Well, I started on them yesterday morning, really.”

 

“Right. And when did you last eat…”

 

Hamilton opened his mouth, but Washington forestalled him. “… A full meal?”

 

Hamilton closed his mouth again. 

 

“OK.” Washington left a healthy pause to let what he hoped was the obvious message sink in. “Now, I don’t mean to disrespect you, but you know as well as I do that that does not sound like an adult healthily coping.”

 

Hamilton shrugged. “Some very successful people manage on a lot less.”

 

Washington resisted the urge to sigh again. OK, apparently this tack was not working. He leaned back in his chair a little. Time for a new avenue. “I presume you know that I used to be in politics?”

 

“Yes,” Hamilton said promptly, though he looked a little surprised at the abrupt change of subject. “You were Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Defence from 1991 to…”

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Washington said quickly, before Hamilton could list his entire career. “Do you know why I left politics?”

 

“No sir,” Hamilton said, though he was now clearly paying avid attention. “Obviously there was press speculation, but…”

 

“It was killing me,” Washington said bluntly. “The workload, the stress, the constant attention, the pressure. I barely slept. I was a wreck of a man, and I was desperately unhappy.”

 

“Oh,” Hamilton said quietly.

 

“It’s very easy to get caught up in it all,” Washington said. “That culture of overworking to the point of exhaustion. But it isn’t healthy, and it isn’t sustainable. Very few of my political colleagues are still in office. And the ones that still are… They’re the ones we used to condemn as lazy, back in the day, but clearly they did much better than the rest of us. No one can do _everything_. Or at the very least, you cannot do everything for a long period of time. You need to prioritise what you do. And for the sake of yourself and indeed your work, if that matters more to you…” He gave Hamilton a meaningful look. “Though I don’t need to tell you that it shouldn’t… You have to put your own health at the top of that list, not the bottom.”

 

Hamilton was silent. His hands went up mechanically to comb through his hair and retie his ponytail a little more neatly.

 

“So believe me when I say that I’m not trying to patronise or inhibit you,” Washington said heavily. “I’m only telling you what I wish someone had said to me thirty years ago, before I ruined what could have been the best years of my life.”

 

Hamilton gave a single nod, straightened his glasses again. “OK.”

 

“Now.” Washington smoothed his hands down his thighs, wiping out imaginary creases in his trousers, before levering himself out of his chair. “I’m going to talk to Greene for you.”

 

“Thank you, sir, I…”

 

“Please _stay here_. I’ll be back in a minute.”

 

Hamilton hesitated, his muscles tensed to stand up himself.

 

“I can’t make you stay, obviously,” Washington said quickly. “But I would appreciate it if you did. Make yourself comfortable.”

 

Hamilton nodded cautiously and settled himself back in his chair. “OK.”

 

Washington left the room, closing the door behind him, and took a moment to compose himself. He wasn’t really surprised at how much seeing Hamilton like that had affected him, but he should try and keep a lid on his more overprotective instincts. He wondered what Martha would do if she saw Hamilton. Give Washington a good telling off for not helping him more, probably, and then drag him in for a good meal. Washington stifled a smile and set off for Greene’s office down the corridor. 

 

Fortunately Greene was alone. And was also very amenable to giving Hamilton an extension, partly because he was up to his neck in marking already, and partly because he confessed that reading Hamilton’s essays normally had to be reserved for when he had a number of hours free and plenty of alcohol on hand. “It’s not that they’re not _good_ ,” he said to Washington, rather despairingly. “They’re very good. They just give me the bad feeling that I’m not bright enough to understand them.”

 

When Washington returned to his office, he opened the door as quietly as he could. 

 

His suspicions were correct. Hamilton was already nodding in the armchair, his eyes losing the battle to stay open, but unfortunately he sat almost violently up to attention when Washington entered. 

 

“Sorry sir! Sorry, I just…” Hamilton scrambled to pick up his books. “I’d better go.”

 

“Stop trying to run off,” Washington said jovially, closing the door again, walking casually back to his desk and sitting down. “I’ll begin to think it’s a judgement on the quality of my company.”

 

Hamilton flushed pink. “Sorry sir, it isn’t, I swear.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve spoken to Greene, and he is very happy to give you a week’s extension on the essay. And _don’t_ say it isn’t necessary, I know you’ll be rushed off your feet with the referendum.”

 

Hamilton seemed to be working hard to hold back his objections, but eventually he just swallowed and said, “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Now, if you wanted to recommence that nap, I believe that would be a very good idea,” Washington said casually, turning back to his computer. Hamilton gave a derisive snort behind him.

 

“You must be joking, sir.”

 

“Hmmmm.” Washington opened one of his emails, more out of theatricality than anything else. “No, I don’t believe I am.”

 

He glanced back at Hamilton, who was looking confused, embarrassed, and affronted. “I’m serious, Alexander.”

 

“B-But sir, I have an essay to write, and an article due Thursday, and a speech to prepare for…”

 

“Put the essay off,” Washington insisted. “I’ve told you before, you over-prepare and try to cover too much material - it’s why you always go over the word count. I’ll help you write your plan later. And I’ll help you work on your week’s schedule as well - I’m sure we can find some more time.”

 

He could see Hamilton wavering. Fine, time to bring out the subject that Hamilton apparently cared most about.

 

“And if I need to convince you further, I have to confess that I’m not sure your writing abilities are at their best when you are quite this sleep-deprived.”

 

“What do you mean?” Hamilton said defensively.

 

“I mean that early this morning you sent me an email reading…” Washington located it, opened it, and began reading aloud. “ _Dear Professor Was-hig-ot-n.”_ Washington deliberately sounded out the misspelling. “ _Tomorrow are you free because it is necessary I discuss of you essay extension for justice, due on 10am_. I mean, it carries on in a very similar vein, but I believe you get the picture.”

 

He turned around again to give Hamilton a disapproving look. Hamilton wilted a little, and rubbed his jaw self-consciously. Some of the manic energy seemed to have gone out of him. Maybe the energy drinks were wearing off.

 

“So I really think it’s best for your health, my peace of mind, and also your essay, if you get some rest.” Washington nodded towards Hamilton’s feet. “Take off your shoes. I’ll wake you for lunch.”

 

“For lunch?” Hamilton said faintly. Washington was counting the fact that he wasn’t actively arguing as a good sign. 

 

“Yes. Take off your glasses too, while you’re at it, they’ll hurt your face.”

 

Hamilton, amazingly, obediently took them off. Washington reached out a hand for them and set them carefully on his desk. Indeed they looked so battered and bent that he feared he might snap them. He turned back to find Hamilton very cautiously reaching down to untie his shoe, staring at Washington suspiciously as if afraid he was going to conclude his master plan to steal Hamilton’s glasses by laughing at him and throwing him out of his office.

 

“I won’t let anyone in, obviously,” Washington continued, thinking that maybe the way to avoid Hamilton’s embarrassment was just to talk over it. 

 

“Thanks,” Hamilton said wryly. He looked younger again without the glasses. Jesus, he was probably only twenty years old, what was he doing looking so haggard?

 

“I’m just going to be reading some essays and going through my emails, but no peeking over my shoulder, all right?” Washington said teasingly, and was rewarded with a slight smile from Hamilton.

 

“OK.”

 

Hamilton removed his second shoe and slowly tucked both feet on to the armchair beside him, still watching Washington warily. 

 

“See you in a couple of hours,” Washington said lightly, and Hamilton nodded guardedly. He made a slight concession by leaning his head a little against the back of the chair and giving a slow blink. 

 

“Sleep well,” Washington said softly, turning back to his computer to give Hamilton a little privacy.

 

A few moments later, he heard a quiet “Sir?” from behind him, and turned around. Hamilton looked half-asleep already, his eyes mostly closed, his arms tucked protectively around himself.

 

“Yes son?”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“It’s no problem,” Washington said sincerely.

 

Ten minutes later, having heard Hamilton’s breathing relax and deepen, he risked a glance over his shoulder. Hamilton was fast asleep. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he reached under his desk. He secretly kept a blanket there to cover his legs when his office got chilly in the evenings once the heating had gone off. Not that he would be caught dead wearing it - he didn’t need any more jokes about his age, thank you very much.

 

He unrolled the blanket quickly and stood up as carefully as he could. He took a moment to observe Hamilton more closely. His black eye had gone down, thankfully, but his fingernails were bitten and bloody, and his wrists worryingly skinny. With a sigh, Washington carefully draped the blanket over him. Hamilton stirred a little, but didn’t wake.

 

Washington sat down again and wondered what the hell he was going to do with this kid. On a whim, he picked up his phone and composed a text to Martha.

 

- _Odd question, but would we have enough food for an extra dinner guest tonight?_


	5. In Which Hamilton Gets A Hug

 

 

 

As one o’clock inched closer to two, Washington decided that he should go out on a search for lunch. Hamilton was still sleeping soundly and he was reluctant to wake him, so he left a note on the door that said _Gone to get lunch, stay put!_

 

He had a bit of a dilemma of what to buy Hamilton to eat and had to take the risk that he wasn’t a vegetarian, but he returned with a couple of hefty sandwiches and some orange juice (he thought Hamilton might need the vitamins). Hamilton slept on as Washington inched back into his office again. His mouth was now slightly open, and his breathing heavy.

 

Washington checked his watch and decided regretfully that he really should wake him up. He would no doubt be annoyed if allowed to sleep the day away, and besides, Washington was certain that his sleep schedule was already very irregular as it was.

 

“Alex,” he said quietly. Hamilton didn’t stir. “Alexander,” he repeated, a little more loudly, and Hamilton jumped. He jerked his head upright, sat up suddenly, pushed the blanket off himself in confusion, and blinked rapidly at Washington. 

 

“Time is it?” he slurred in a rush.

 

“Ten to two,” Washington said gently. “I brought lunch. I hope you’re not a vegetarian. And please don’t go running off again right away, we’ve got that schedule to work on.”

 

“I’m… I’m not,” Hamilton said, smoothed a hand slowly down his face and yawned. He frowned at the blanket now gathered around his legs, but Washington quickly handed him a sandwich to forestall him. “Oh… Thanks.”

 

He started eating cautiously, still watching Washington in that guarded way of his, but eventually seemed to lose his inhibitions and quickly wolfed the rest of it down. Washington handed him the orange juice in silence, and he chugged it.

 

“Thanks sir,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “I can pay you back, I…”

 

“No need,” Washington said quickly.

 

Hamilton frowned. “I’m not a charity case, sir.”

 

“I know that,” Washington said patiently. “This is a favour. For a friend.”

 

“OK,” Hamilton said, and sighed. “I’m sorry. I know I’m… defensive.”

 

“Hmmm,” Washington agreed, and took a swig of his own orange juice. “Now, this essay.”

 

They spent most of the rest of the afternoon discussing Hamilton’s essay, which, as predicted, he had already done too much research for, and compromised on a slightly less ambitious but still solid title. Washington also took a look at Hamilton’s schedule for his week, which was, to put it mildly, “disorganised”, and to put it accurately, “disastrous”. Hamilton did eventually concede that it would be good to get a decent night’s sleep the night before the referendum, that his side project of international law research only tangentially related to his dissertation topic could possibly wait, and it probably wasn’t the best weekend to try and drive to London to join a protest march. Despite the debate becoming heated at times, Washington could see him relaxing slightly more as they talked together, and he found the “son” endearment slipping out even more often than before. 

 

By the time five o’clock arrived, Washington thought they had sufficiently built up a good enough rapport for him to attempt his riskiest manoeuvre yet. 

 

“Actually, Alexander,” he said casually, twirling his phone in one hand. “I don’t know if you’re free this evening, but I wondered if you’d be able to attend dinner with my wife and I at home.”

 

Hamilton looked at him like he’d gone mad. “What?”

 

“I texted her earlier,” Washington said, proffering the phone as if it were evidence. “I was thinking that if she could see me now, she’d be telling me off for not inviting you round to give you a decent meal.”

 

The fact that Hamilton received the slight gibe about his eating habits with a small perplexed smile instead of a snappy retort was progress indeed. He was frowning a little in confusion, however. “Are you serious? Why? What? I can’t.”

 

“Why not?” Washington asked with a shrug.

 

“Have you seen me?” Hamilton said flatly, not bothering to point at his shabby clothes.

 

“Well,” Washington conceded. “Yes. But you could always go back to your house and change.”

 

Hamilton hesitated. Washington struggled not to show his surprise that he was actually considering it.

 

“You’ve not…?” Hamilton sighed. “I don’t want to ask. But you haven’t got any kind of… agenda?”

 

“No,” Washington said, meeting his eyes. “I don’t. You’re a brilliant young man who I’ve been worrying aloud about to my wife, and I’d like you to meet her. My only ulterior motive would be feeding you vegetables.”

 

Hamilton still looked bemused, but he did grimace at the mention of vegetables. “Well, as long as my body doesn’t reject them due to the shock,” he said jokingly, and Washington laughed.

 

“Well, will you come? If you give me your address, I could give you a lift later.”

 

Hamilton shook his head. Washington prepared himself for a firm refusal. But still, he had at least tried.

 

“You don’t need to give me a lift. But I can get the bus, if you let me know what time.”

 

Washington tried not to let his eyebrows rise high enough to show his shock. “Excellent, that will work well for me. Shall we say seven?”

 

He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from his desk. “Here’s my address. And my phone number, if you get lost.”

 

Hamilton took it with a smile, running his finger along the torn edge. “Thanks.”

 

“All right, shall I let you go, then? I apologise, I’ve kept you all day.”

 

“No, don’t,” Hamilton said quickly. “I mean, don’t apologise. You’ve been, well, pretty fantastic, to be honest, sir. I don’t know how you put up with me, really.”

 

“You’re really not that hard to put up with, son,” Washington assured him. He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice confidentially. “You should try dealing with Adams in faculty meetings.”

 

Hamilton let out a loud, genuine laugh at that. He picked up his books, grabbed Washington’s hand for a brief but intense handshake, and was gone. 

 

 

***

 

“Stop fussing, George,” Martha said patiently, as Washington peered worriedly out of the dark window for the fourth time. “He’ll be along soon.”

 

“You don’t know him like I do,” Washington said concernedly, craning his neck to see better. “He’ll get something stupid in his head about this being charity so he can’t possibly turn up, or he’ll end up getting into a fight with some idiot catcalling, or…”

 

“I feel like I know him almost as well as you do, all the fretting you do,” Martha pointed out. “Don’t worry. The casserole’s in the oven, it can keep if he’s late. And he will come. Not many students can turn down the offer of a free meal.”

 

Washington smiled, despite himself, and kissed her on the cheek, appreciating the scent of her perfume. “I do not deserve you.”

 

“Certainly not,” Martha said, returning to her sketch with a smile.

 

Washington tried to busy himself with the crossword (and with getting up and “checking on”, and indeed tasting, the casserole) for the next few minutes. Just as he was tempted to go back to the window again, there was a knock on the door, and he rushed to open it as Martha chuckled at his nerves.

 

He opened the door to Hamilton, who was looking significantly better-groomed than he had earlier. His hair was gleaming and pulled back into a comparatively neat ponytail, he was wearing an only slightly creased shirt and trousers, and also an embarrassed smile.

 

“Sorry I’m late, again, sir. I did actually get a bit lost, Google Maps…”

 

“Don’t worry, son, come in, come in,” Washington said quickly, ushering him inside and closing the door. “Have you not got a coat? It’s freezing out there!”

 

“Oh no, I’m fine,” Hamilton said glibly, shivering. “Would you like me to take off my shoes, sir, or…?”

 

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” Washington said quickly, as he caught sight of Martha mouthing “ _son_?” incredulously behind Hamilton’s head. “Ahem, may I introduce my wife, Martha. Martha, this is Alexander Hamilton, one of my students.”

 

“Lovely to meet you,” Hamilton said in a nervous rush, stepping out of the porch cautiously. “It really was very kind of you to accommodate me at such short notice, I must apologise…”

 

“Please don’t worry about it, I blame George entirely,” Martha said comfortingly. “Come through.” She put a proprietary arm through his and tugged him through into the living room, shooting Washington an amused look as she went. 

 

Dinner was actually a remarkably relaxed and entertaining affair. Martha did so well at bringing Hamilton out of his shell that Washington managed to stay reasonably quiet and enjoy his casserole. Indeed Hamilton seemed to feel the same way, as he actually had to pause in the incessant talking for long stretches as he shovelled food into his mouth. First Washington, then Martha, then Washington again, unobtrusively got up from the table to silently bring him additional helpings. 

 

“You know what,” Martha said confidentially, touching Hamilton’s arm again. Hamilton, positively glowing with the attention (and maybe the food), looked up eagerly. “You remind me a great deal of George when he was younger.”

 

Hamilton let out a short laugh which sounded equal parts shocked and pleased, and looked up at Washington, his face shining. He was a good-looking boy now he looked a little less careworn. “Really?” 

 

Washington sighed theatrically. “Come on, Martha, you know I was very quiet, kept my opinions to myself…” He couldn’t even keep his smile to himself for the duration of the sentence. 

 

“You,” Martha said, wagging her finger at him. “Were the most brilliant, loud-mouthed _arse_ I have ever met.”

 

“Hey!” Washington and Hamilton objected in unison. 

 

“See!” Martha said in triumph. “I told you. Like peas in a pod.”

 

Hamilton laughed again, but he looked incredibly pleased with himself. Washington felt warm and flattered at his obvious delight. Martha reached for his hand under the table and shot him a smug look.

 

Dinner also turned out to be quite long-winded, but once it was finished, Hamilton eventually stood up and began to make his excuses. “Sorry, I’m not sure I can really stay,” he said apologetically. “I should, erm, really get to bed, actually, I’m exhausted.”

 

“Excellent,” Washington said approvingly, watching the way that Hamilton’s lips twitched slightly into a smile at the praise. “Please let me give you a lift home, though. It’s cold out.”

 

“Sir, please don’t worry…”

 

“Humour him,” Martha suggested seriously. “I mean, it may just be a transparent ploy to get out of the washing up, but he does worry. He’ll only be complaining to me otherwise, so consider it a favour.”

 

“Martha,” Washington protested, but Hamilton huffed, and smiled again. 

 

“Fine, I suppose.”

 

“See, darling, I’m a good influence,” Martha told Washington, getting up and making a bee-line for Hamilton. Washington saw the confusion in Hamilton’s eyes before she pulled him into a tight hug. Hamilton’s face was clearly visible over her diminutive shoulder, looking very startled andquite enchanted. “Now please go and get your rest. And do come back soon.”

 

“I-I will, Mrs. Washington, thank you very much for your hospitality…”

 

“Martha, please. Now George, please give this young man a lift home.”

 

“Your wish is my command,” Washington said teasingly, offering her a quick kiss as he passed, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. “Come along, Hamilton,” he said, jokingly chivvying him along to the door.

 

The journey was in fact surprisingly quiet, though Hamilton occasionally interjected to give him directions. However, Washington judged it to be a comfortable silence. He even began to believe that Hamilton was serious about going to bed, as he no longer seemed to be making so much of an effort to stifle his large yawns. There also hadn’t been a sign of his agitated tapping over dinner, which Washington suspected was at least partly a tool to keep himself awake. Once or twice when Washington glanced over at him, he was even leaning back against the head rest placidly. 

 

They reached Hamilton’s terraced student accommodation about twenty minutes later, but naturally couldn’t find a place to park. Washington pulled into a side street further down and insisted he walk Hamilton to his door (he knew logically that Hamilton must walk through here all the time, but it was a painfully dodgy area).

 

“Here we are then,” Hamilton announced when they reached his door, failing to hide a small shiver. “Thank you again, sir, I…”

 

“I should start counting how many times you’ve thanked me, that must be the third time in five minutes,” Washington joked. “It’s really no problem, Alexander. It was a pleasure.”

 

“OK,” Hamilton said. He was twiddling the fingers of his right hand, and suddenly seemed to have found them very interesting. “I… About earlier. I really appreciated it. And, well. Dinner too. You’ve really gone above and beyond for me, and I don’t really know how to say thank you apart from repeating it, I guess.”

 

“It’s only because I wanted to,” Washington said honestly. “Alexander, you’re a very talented and remarkable young man, and I want you to be a happy one too.”

 

“OK,” Hamilton said again. He shot Washington a quick glance, and then went back to his hand. His right arm seemed to be making an effort to rise of its own accord. Washington looked at it quizzically.

 

“Erm. Can I…”

 

Hamilton sighed, apparently struggling with his words for once, and suddenly lunged at Washington in what appeared to be an approximation of a hug.

 

“Yes you can,” Washington said unnecessarily, and Hamilton laughed, his voice slightly muffled. He cautiously engaged his arms to wrap around Hamilton’s small frame. Hamilton was gripping him very tightly, almost desperately. His untidy hair was getting in Washington’s face, and he was half-treading on one of Washington’s shoes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Trying to compensate for the difficult off-balance nature of their position, Washington settled for one arm around Hamilton’s shoulders, and the other awkwardly patting his back.

 

And as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Hamilton pulled back suddenly, and then took several steps back, rapidly blinking suddenly suspiciously bright eyes.

 

“OK,” he said for a third time. “Thanks, sorry. Thanks.”

 

Washington nodded. “It’s fine. Get some rest. And send me an email, let me know how the referendum goes. Though I’m sure I’ll see your write-up of it in the newspaper as well.”

 

Hamilton gave another jerky nod, another sheepish but radiant smile and then turned away to clumsily unlock the door of his flat and disappear inside.

 

Washington made the short walk back to his car with his answering smile still fixed on his face despite the chill of the night air. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END. Hope you enjoyed, everyone, (paternal Washington is just one of my many weaknesses), and many thanks for the comments and kudos, they mean the world <3


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